


Moderated Insomnia

by GabrielVincent



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-28
Updated: 2011-05-28
Packaged: 2017-10-19 20:39:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,974
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/204979
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GabrielVincent/pseuds/GabrielVincent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock thinks sleeping is for normal people which he finds totally uncool.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Moderated Insomnia

**Author's Note:**

> Something I wrote ages ago, pre-understanding that it's probably beneficial to my writing if I actually read it over once I've done it. I'm going to post old things here first, then start writing things that are actually acceptable.  
> Okay. Enjoy. Warning: possibly vomit-inducingly cute

John had been having difficulty sleeping of late. He realised one morning, over toast that was unreasonably difficult to obtain due to various experiments and suspicious areas of mess on every kitchen surface, that the lack of sleep was invariably the fault of his flatmate.  
As if on cue, Sherlock had reversed into the room, hands poised in front of his as if he were addressing some invisible troublemaker who simply must have stolen his phone. He turned around in a flash, startling John into freezing with his mouth open and toast in mid air, as he narrowed his eyes at him accusingly.  
'You have it.'  
'No...I don't...' For a second, John believed he hadn't seen it. Then he remembered that Sherlock had an annoying tendancy to be correct when making accusations. The problem was, John couldn't figure out why he was apparently lying this time.  
'Your feigned innocence is wearing my patience, John, I suggest you give it back immediately.' Sherlock's voice was impatience mixed with his oft-displayed cool derision. Aimed at John sitting perfectly bemused over breakfast, it made for an amusing diminishing of his usual severity.  
'I honestly don't know what you mean. I haven't...oh.' This is when John remembered, cringingly, exactly where Sherlock's favourite distraction and friend John often worried that he came second to was right now. He giggled guiltily, reaching into a pocket of his jacket on the table.  
'Why? Why would you do that?'  
'The alarms. You set alarms and they kept going off. Sherlock, you do realise I haven't slept for about four days now? I had to turn it off. And move it...'  
'Oh, once again an ingenius plan from Doctor John Watson. Wonderful. Clever. Give it back.' The dramatic rolls of his eyes as Sherlock delivered this sarcastic barrage at the man he momentarily stopped considering an ally gave him the look of someone so delightfully unrealistic, John decided to let this slide.

The real reason he'd disturbed this particular experiment wasn't purely because it was preventing him from sleeping. The night before, John, after throwing the pillow he'd attempted to block the incessant beeping with at the wall in frustration had run down the stairs to find Sherlock sprawled accross the sofa, apparently asleep. 'Sherlock?' John had whispered tentatively. When no reply came, John inspected him to see that his breathing was slow and regular, his eyelids were still and he seemed -though John knew how easily Sherlock could probably fake this- very much asleep. John had taken the Blackberry from the coffee table and gone back upstairs as quietly as possible.

This was, admittedly, a revelation in the ways in which Sherlock ensured the loss of John's job at the surgery, in which being awake was a primary requirement- the thin floors of the old house meant that John could almost always hear whenever Sherlock paced the space before his wall of hastily-stapled cases, and the thought alone of those constantly moving hands, the slight sea-sick feeling when he realised he could envision the rapidly flicking eyes never failed to keep John blinking at the ceiling, praying he'd try an experiment in sitting down quietly for once. It never happened.  
The pacing was probably the least obtrusive, however. Sometimes John could even get used to those soft repetative thuds as something like a minimalist lullaby. The pacing was definitely not that bad. Never as bad as the violin playing. The incessant violin playing. John could appreciate classical music. He could most definitely hear the beauty in an accomplished player gliding through a Paganini Caprice, he could feel the emotion when a virtuoso released the notes of Mendelssohn's concertos in E minor like the violin could cry, and Sherlock was capable of this and more- he just wished he wouldn't be so capable of it at midnight. Or perhaps, as the music could be a lovely thing to fall asleep to, he wished he wouldn't stray from the nice pieces and extract his frustrations in jagged, off-key rhythms at midnight. Sherlock's improvisation when trying was a gift the most talented players would dream of, but he did tend to get a little carried away. Obviously, Sherlock would say the next morning when he seemed fine and John could collapse, obviously he was provoked by Mycroft.  
Other things included experiments that ended with loud noises, or simply Sherlock scouring the cupboards for things to use in experiments. the clatter of saucepans was something that became all-too-familiar for a week after John tried to organise and label the things in the kitchen. Sometimes, John would hear the very ominous dulled bang of a muffled gunshot. He decided never to ask, as knowing about the issue would inevitably lead him to be blamed when Mrs Hudson found a series of holes in the back of the sofa.

The noises, of course, were only the start. As John stood up from the kitchen table, carefully extracting his plate from the mountain of papers that had just collapsed on top of it when Sherlock swept out of the room like a hurrcane, he mused over a couple of other reasons he was missing out on so much sleep.

Although these days John accompanied him to most crime scenes, there were times when Sherlock would simply disappear afterwards, likely chasing up some untied ends somewhere on the other side of London. They'd already established after that first night, when John was left with the uncompromising Sally Donovan, an injured leg and no idea where he was that in such cases, Sherlock would see him at home at some point.  
The problem here was that 'some point' sometimes meant 'in fifteen minutes', but could just as often mean 'in two days'. It was then that John wouldn't sleep. He realised as he lay down, worrying about where Sherlock was and then worrying about the fact that he was worrying -why should he worry? What did Sherlock do before he met John? He coped, he survived. He's still alive, there's no need to worry- that his sleeping habit wouldn't change whether or not Sherlock was in the house. This was obviously quite a dilemma, John thought, as he watched daylight slip into his window once again. He knew then that whatever attatchment he'd suddenly formed to Sherlock wasn't in any way healthy. He knew then that living here, with this particular man, could possibly be a little bit too interesting for his expectations.  
That day, Sherlock has arrived home as if nothing had happened, his key in the door triggering John to jump up in alarm and run to the living room with just enough time to catch himself and assume a casual position before he attempted to hug Sherlock and greet him with thousands of angry questions, all along the lines of 'where on earth have you been?!'. Instead, John had sat down, worried some more about his mental health and hoped Sherlock hadn't seen the entirely baffled, surprised, angry and -god help him- enamoured look on his face before he swept past him, dropping a newspaper conveniently on his lap.  
That night had been the next reason he didn't sleep. Sherlock was in his usual position, his preposterously long body taking up the entirity of the sofa, his slender fingers posed artfully under his chin in deep thought. 'I'm going up to bed now,' he had announced, his voice sounding oddly loud in the silent environment. 'Good...' Sherlock had murmured, evidently not having registered John at all. 'Are you going to go to bed tonight? You know you should, get some sleep...you'll think better tomorrow if you do,' John had hoped this promise of improved intelligence would entice him. 'Doubtful. And that's a ridiculous theory, sleeping means not thinking. See you tomorrow.' and that, John supposed, was that. He sighed and climbed the stairs resignedly.  
When he lay down, he worried some more. He couldn't remember the last time Sherlock slept, and he couldn't remember the last time he ate, either. As a doctor, he thought, he ought to be quite concerned. But as he turned off the light in the vain hope that he might fall asleep, he pictured Sherlock on the sofa as he'd last seen him, long neck arched over one armrest and pale feet digging into the green leather of the other and realised his interest was probably a little more than medical.

As it was a Sunday, John wandered into the living room, possibly guided by habit, towards the armchair where he could sit and relax with the Sunday paper. He flicked through every section carefully, and although he wasn't quite as meticulous as Sherlock for checking these things he observed that there probably wasn't that much worth observing, in the Observer. He settled for an article on the latest Japanese robot cat, that might possibly have the ability to grow its own fur.  
He heard Sherlock when he entered the room, unusually. He concluded that meant that Sherlock was still slightly sulky at him for allowing sleep to happen -Sherlock had been figuring out an apparently useful method of sleeping for specific intervals and measuring its effectiveness when attempting to work out something complex immediately after he'd awoken- but John thought it was probably worth it. Perhaps communcation was in order.  
'Only you would be annoyed at someone for giving them time to sleep,' John laughed. 'I'm guessing you've never had a job that made you miss allowing yourself to perform normal human functions...'  
'Once again, wrong. If I was to have a normal job, I'm quite certain I'd feel exactly the same way about sleep. It slows you down. And I thought yesterday was about you getting some rest?'  
'That too, but I do feel that as a doctor I should advise you to do things like eat and sleep.'  
'As a doctor.'  
'Yes, Sherlock, a doctor. Even if you're intent on losing me my job so I can spend more time not sleeping and eating with you.'  
Sherlock's eyes grew wide with outrage. 'I'm doing no such thing, it's not my fault you can't concentrate on blocking me out! I do make an effort to be quiet sometimes, you know,'  
This does come as a surprise to John, as there's a small inflection of hurt honesty in Sherlock's otherwise defiant voice, but it's probably not intentional.  
'Well it's not just the noises,' as soon as he says it, he regrets it. There's probably a way to cover that up.  
'What? What else?'  
'Like I said, i am a doctor, so I have the right to be worried about you if you aren't eating and sleeping. I think that's perfectly reasonable.' Wow, talk about digging a hole, John thought.  
'And doctors usually stay awake at night worrying about their patients, do they? I'd say that's a questionable level of professionalism, John,'  
Sherlock began to smile as he curled himself into the corner of the sofa facing John incredibly intently.  
'Well, you aren't my patient, are you?'  
'No, so you shouldn't be worried,'  
'No, I mean, you aren't my patient, you're my...' John scoured his memory for a good word. He was desperate to say friend, but the pause he'd left made it absolutely impossible to do that without sounding horribly awkward and embarrassed.  
'Friend?' Sherlock smiled strangely.  
'Yes, that. Friend. And so I'm allowed to worry about you.'  
'I'd say friends don't worry about each other half as much as you do, John.' The smile has infuriatingly widened, correlating with the growth of the frown on John's face. Was he trying to make this an incredibly painful experience? Did he have any idea what was going through John's mind? This situation was reminiscent of so many awkward encounters when he was younger, although he was quite sure no teenage girl he'd been trying to impress was anywhere near as maddenngly inquisitive as the consulting detective before him. Consulting detective incapable of separating his job from his home life.  
John finally settled for an aggrieved look at Sherlock, then turning back to his paper, distinctly more unsettled than he had been previously.  
He barely noticed when Sherlock got up and left the room.  
He did notice, however, when about half an hour later, a very cold and very thin hand crept over his shoulder.  
'Sherlock...' John's voice was wary, tired and very quiet on account of the fact that Sherlock was quite close to him and it was doing strange things to his head and body.  
'Yes, John?' His voice was all innocent and bright. That simply had to be fake. John lowered the paper to cover his lap. Just in case.  
'What are you doing.' The question was in John's head but in the state of sudden and unexpected panic it came out as more of a strained statement.  
'I just thought...sometimes I worry about you too.'  
'Really?' John twisted his head, carefully batting away Sherlock's hand as it threatened to creep over the hair on the back of his neck. Which would of course be totally inappropriate. He hoped his alarmed gestures will get Sherlock at a safe distance from him where he could consider this potentially mad conversation...a conversation. As opposed to an assault. A nice kind of assault, mind you.  
Thankfully, Sherlock complied, moving round the armchair in a way that John could only descibe as 'slinking'. He sat down on the table opposite him, his toes dangerously close to John's when he leant forwards to continue this unexpected inquisition.  
'Yes. I do. I worry that you lack human contact and that you'd be happier if you didn't. I'm aware that my actions may have slightly resulted in this...unhappiness...'  
John couldn't comprehend the nature of this particular assertion. He felt himself blushing as he tried desperately to look somewhere that wasn't Sherlock's mad eyes.  
'So, John, I'd like to apologise for this. And...' The hand, again, slid forward. This time to rest on John's knee. 'I could possibly rectify that situation. If that's what you'd like. Which I think you would, having observed your behaviour in combination with a short analysis of our earlier conversation.'  
John was having trouble thinking as Sherlock's other hand met the one on John's legs. His palms rested there, Sherlock's eyes darted down to consider the contrast of his pale skin moving smoothly over the dark denim. This exercise in restraint was a challenge for John as he resisted the urge to clasp the intruding hands in his own before making sure exactly what it was Sherlock meant.  
'Would you just...would you just make that a bit clearer please? I mean, I'd like to be quite honest about something here but if I'm getting the wrong end of the stick this would be a completely not good situation.'  
'Much as I question your intelligence most days, John, I'm quite sure that your judgement here is accurate. To make it clear, I'm certain you want to kiss me. I'd like to tell you that you are welcome to do so.'  
Oh. John thought. Well, that makes a little bit of sense. Deciding this opportunity was potentially quite rare -Sherlock never having been a huge fan of other people touching him- John leant forward and did just that. Incredibly tentatively, John kissed the man sat before him, eyes open to the last second to just make sure, be absolutely certain that this was what he had in mind.  
Sherlock's mouth parted slightly, irresistably, the angles and curves John had always managed to stop himself dwelling on for too long were all of a sudden deliciously available to him. When he let go, he drew back to see something quite astounding- Sherlock looked surprised and quite happy. At this point, he stood up from the table, now holding John's hand, curled himself over John on the armchair and draping his legs over one arm of it, took John's face in his hands.  
'Would you like to tell me that thing you were worried about being honest about now?' John had never heard Sherlock's voice like this. His tone was low and seductive but matched with wide eyes, making it seem quiet and gentle. It was enough to render him incapable of speech, but John was pretty sure he had to give it a go.  
'You stop me sleeping,' he managed, almost choking with the effort of it.  
'Yes, we established that...' because of course Sherlock is still hopelessly derisive in moments of intimacy,  
'You stop me sleeping because I worry about you too much, I didn't mean to- I don't know how...I care about you. Which is obviously mad, quite mad. I'm sorry, I just...I like you Sherlock, too much...I've just wanted this-' he waved an arm around them both by way of explanation, 'for so long. So when you're not here I can't sleep because I'm worried about you, and when you are I can't sleep because I want to be with you!' Oh, oh dear, John thought. This might be something hard to come back from. John pondered for a second giving a quick disclaimer, but Sherlock had shut his mouth before he could think of one good enough.  
Sherlock's fingers quickly found the back of John's head, they ran through his hair pushing him closer to Sherlock. Not that John needed much encouragement. His hands found their way inside Sherlock's dressing gown, grateful for the loose t-shirt where a shirt would usually be tightly tucked in as he moved his hands over his impossibly tiny and impossibly smooth waist. His attempt to keep it innocent was not equally met, however, as Sherlock's cold fingers slipped under John's belt.

Perhaps, John thought, this would be a night where sleeping could be less of a priority.


End file.
